Your Hand In Mine
by Pilot101
Summary: Second POV up, and 3rd on the way! A letter from Fergus to Alistair following the birth of Lady Cousland's son and her subsequent death. Details her life after the Blight and Alistair's marriage to Anora. More details inside! R&R!
1. From Fergus

Hello! Just a quick disclaimer (I don't own anything and I make no money) and note: sorry to all who are following my other story, this baby was just dying to get out! Also, I feel like if both Alistair and Cousland survived everything and Cousland wasn't super pushy (which according to Bioware she would have to be to get the guy), this is the most likely scenario- Alistair + Anora = Cousland + sadness. I feel like it would be the ultimate kick in the face if Alistair and Cousland COULD have had everything, but Alistair was just too pigheaded/whatever to see it. Below is just one angle of my scenario of choice. Constructive criticism is always welcome!

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><p>To His Royal Majesty, The King,<p>

My sister was never the type to sit in prolonged silence, unprovoked. Since her adolescence, she was stubborn, strong-willed, and at times, as reckless as the day she was presented with her first dagger. But in the months following the death of the Archdemon, and the end of the fifth Blight, she was as I had never seen her.

Our reunion in Denerim was a day I will never forget, and I remember it with as much joy as I do sadness. I see now it marked the beginning of what inevitably became the end. She was glorious, in her armor, having accomplished more than our father and mother, Maker rest their souls, could ever have envisioned. But I could tell then she did not share in the celebration, as her companions did, your grace included. She looked tired, and drawn, and sick. When I was finally presented with a moment to embrace her, she fell into my arms, too thin and frail to be the woman who had saved us all. I could scarcely believe it, but held her close all the same. She was the only one in the world I had left, following my beloved son and wife's…passing.

I was eager to return to our home in Highever, following the end of the recognition of my sister as the Hero of Ferelden, and urged my sister to follow suit. At the time, I confess to having had some doubts about the condition of her health, but her reassurances that it was nothing that could not be resolved by sleep and a hearty meal sped me on my way. I did, as you know, depart only days before the royal wedding.

I do not claim to know at all the proceedings of what happened before or after the royal wedding. I know only that when my sister arrived, approximately one week later, that it seemed her health had taken a turn for the worse. She was noticeably thinner than when I had last seen her, and dark circles shadowed her delicate face. When I embraced her, she trembled in my arms. I left her only a moment to see some tea brought, and yet when I arrived back, she had gone. I found her some minutes later in the greenhouse, just sitting. Sitting and staring out at nothing.

My sister, as I noted before, was never the type to do such. She was strong, even when grieved, and optimistic, even when defeated. I believed it to be the after effects of war, with which I had seen my father struggle several years before. I seated myself beside her, and she rested her head against my shoulder. She had never done that before—not seriously, at least. That day, we sat there for what must have been three hours, not moving, not talking. Our tea lay forgotten.

In the weeks following her return, I had hoped to see an improvement in her condition, and was not disappointed. The first few days, I found her in the greenhouse as I had upon her arrival, just sitting and staring. But soon, she began taking tea, and not long after, abandoned the greenhouse entirely. When I felt her strong enough, I raised the issue of the Teyrny. My father left the entire estate and his title to my mother first, and then to me. But my sister, having outdone me in every sense of duty, was left nothing but a few hundreds sovereigns a year.

My sister was not without love, on the contrary—in fact, I am inclined to believe she was my father's favorite. I imagine, quite simply, that both our loving parents believed she would be married with her husband's entailment to consider, rather than her own. Indeed, until Howe's betrayal, they had never once considered she would actually be put in a position where she would be required to defend her life, though she was trained since infancy for such a task.

I wanted to discuss with her the option of perhaps dividing the estate, as I no longer had an heir. Perhaps part of me wanted her to remain, as well. I felt that if I could prevail upon her to take some responsibility for our estate, she would stay in our ancestral home. I will not lie—after the death of my wife and son, I couldn't bear to be in Highever alone. My sister's presence, though subtle, and utterly changed from our childhood, was a great comfort to me.

I was surprised by her refusal to claim any of her inheritance, including the few hundred sovereigns mother and father had set aside for her. She was, as you know, by no means poor, but did not possess a large sum to her name. I was curious, but satisfied, as she had assured me she would not be leaving Highever for several months, if not years, to come. It saddens me, in retrospect, to think of the sincerity and resolve in her proclamation. You majesty will come to understand, I hope, as I explain.

In the following weeks, I became quite busy with the rebuilding and repair of our home. There were several variables to be organized, and I confess to spending most of my time either in the study or out with the workers. I am to understand my sister did entertain visitors, among them a mage from the circle and Bann Teagan, I believe. There were no doubt others, but I have noted the afore as they were, similarly, noted to me as frequent callers. Bann Teagan, I believe, began expressing great interest in my sister, as they had met at some point during her travels. I was fortunate enough to meet him, though it was only once, and very brief. He seemed extremely agreeable, but my sister would not comment on the context of their relationship, and after a time, he stopped calling. I believe all correspondence between them dissolved.

It was around this time I began noticing a physical change in my sister. Her dresses did not fit quite as loosely as they had in the days after her return from Denerim—they did not hang off her, in her thinness. I had been fortunate to witness my late wife's pregnancy with our son, and recognized, though not without some initial disbelief, that my sister was, indeed, with child. She met often with the circle mage—Wynne, if I recall correctly—and I once heard them arguing most heatedly through her dressing room door. For such an argument to occur, I knew my sister must have trusted and cared for Wynne a great deal, so I remained hesitant to involve myself in an affair that was bound to be anything but simple. My duty as a brother, not only as a Teyrn, eventually drove me to confrontation, however.

For the first time in the four months since my sister had returned home, I found her in the greenhouse. She was, as before, sitting and staring, oblivious to the ever-present winter chill. She twirled some elfroot between her fingers, twisting and ripping it subconsciously. Her stomach protruded noticeably now, though it was still yet slight. I did not know how to approach the subject delicately, and so drove to the point. I asked her if she thought that I, or anyone else in the castle, for that matter, would not notice the change that had overcome her since her arrival home. I also hinted strongly that her frequent meetings and correspondence with Bann Teagan would no doubt come to light as her 'condition' did. I recall with shame how I shouted at her, in my anger.

For a very long while, my sister did not reply. She just sat, her hands cradling her belly, her eyes staring unseeing at the floor. I sat beside her, resigned to wait for her reply as long as I had to. Your grace will forgive me for writing plainly, though I do not do it without pain. My sister laid her head on my shoulder, and after a deep breath, said only that the child within her did not belong to Bann Teagan. When I asked her who the father was, disgust evident in my voice, she shook her head and would say only that he was honorable, and knew not of the child only because she would not tell him. I was furious, curious, and distressed, as you can imagine, all at once. It was many months before we spoke of the child's paternity again.

The enchanter Wynne returned often, perhaps every few weeks or so, and I gather she functioned as a sort of midwife. My sister insisted on complete secrecy, so I never spoke to Wynne, myself, until after the child was born. The servants seemed to take pity on her, as well, and kept their own speculations at a minimum, at least in my and her presences. There were some days when it seemed she was able to rally her strength and fortitude, and returned almost to the woman I had come to know growing up. Other days, she was irritable and silent, or dejected and slow.

And then, there were the nightmares. I had expected them, given her involvement with the Grey Wardens. Conflict of any nature is difficult to overcome, but to have had to deal with it on such a scale, and in such a state—I truly cannot imagine what she must have felt. She would wake in the night sometimes, screaming. Many times I wanted to go to her, to comfort her as she sobbed uncontrolled behind her bedroom door. But what could I have done? I hoped they would fade with time, but it seemed they intensified, if that was, at all, possible.

I thought, perhaps, some training might help to ease her out of the lifestyle to which she must have become so accustomed. But no matter how hard I advocated or argued, she would not touch a blade. She adamantly refused to enter the armory, and would only enter the family vault when I insisted it necessary. I believe she lifted neither dagger nor sword again.

Again, I must beg leave to write plainly, your majesty. When I observed my sister in Denerim, I believed she held you in some kind of contempt. She addressed you only by title, never looked you in the eyes, and suffered your company only in public, and in large groups of people. I thought this odd, considering you and several others had traveled with her over the preceding months, but resigned myself to remaining indifferent. My sister was never disposed to judging or begrudging others, but I thought perhaps that had changed, along with so many other facets of her personality. I was obliged to question my decision to turn a blind eye, however, during the early weeks of her third trimester.

It had been a long while since my sister had set foot outside our family home, given her condition. I felt, in addition to everything else, this was the main reason she was in such a fiery mood one day. To my everlasting surprise, and curiosity, however, I learned from a servant that she had received correspondence from none other than his majesty, the King. I found her in the library, cradling her forehead in one hand, as if nursing a headache, her other supporting her weight against the mantle. I caught a glimpse of a letter from behind, a few sheets in length, burning in the flames. I do not know if this was your letter, sire, and neither did I ask. When I confronted her, I asked only why she was upset.

"I thought I could escape it—that I could somehow, outmaneuver myself. But I'm never going to get away from it. Not now," she replied, staring into the flames. I remember her words clearly. I can see the sadness in her eyes, the shadows from the flames dancing on her skin, even now. "What do I do?" she asked, tears in her eyes. My heart ached, and I wanted to say _something—anything_ to comfort her. She looked so lost, so utterly out of hope. And even then, she fought it. She fought to suffer her pain in silence, and alone. She would not say more, not then, and not anytime thereafter. But I knew, whatever it was that was destroying her from the inside, had everything to do with that letter, and its writer. I do not know whether this was the only correspondence exchanged with my sister, nor do I wish to. I know only that upon any mention of you, or her ladyship the queen, my sister would excuse herself from company, and disappear, sometimes, for several hours. I can say little else with any certainty.

And now, your majesty, I come to the point—to the answer to your question. My sister went into labor approximately four days ago. The enchanter Wynne arrived shortly thereafter, summoned by one of the servants, and disappeared to my sister's side almost immediately. The memory of my son's delivery was still fresh in my mind, and as I was in no hurry to relive the experience, especially with a bastard child, I retired to my study, resigned to wait as long as was necessary. I confess to knowing only that approximately nine hours later, sometime during the early, dark hours of the morning, Wynne appeared in my study, covered in blood. She told me to write to the King immediately—the Lady Cousland was dead.

I cannot describe that feeling. I cannot put into words the feeling of losing my own baby sister, my only remaining kin. I was in too much shock to comprehend that the woman who had delivered us, all of us, from the archdemon, had succumbed during childbirth. I refused, naturally. I did not understand your connection to my sister. Not until several hours later. And even then, even _now_, it all seems too much to take in. Forgive me, but I cannot write of the matter anymore.

I see now that my sister, Maker rest her brave soul, had not hate for you, but love. Love that burned and tore at her until the moment she died, giving birth to your son. Her body was burned only yesterday, and yet I still imagine her here. I still expect to see her out of the corner of my eyes every time I see something that she put down, expecting to pick it up at some later point. It is difficult, seeing signs of her everywhere, and knowing she is no longer here—that I will never hear her voice again. I will leave this place, soon. And I do not expect to ever return.

That being said, I will not keep your son from you. He is of Theirin blood, and as I understand it, it is what my sister wanted, in the event of her passing. Part of me believes that she brought the child here to raise him, so she would have a piece of you with her, wherever she went. And whether that be true or not, I know that a part of her will always be alive with you, as shall her memory. I do not claim to know the heart of his majesty, but I pray that you will honor my sister's memory, and tell, at least, the child of his mother—the bravest woman I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. I must beg this, if only this, of his majesty.

This, my king, is a faithful narrative of the months leading up to the birth of your son, and death of a most beloved sister. I take comfort only in knowing her suffering is finally at an end. Indeed, without an end, there can be no peace.

I remain your humble servant.

Teyrn of Highever,

Fergus Cousland


	2. Chapter 2

Alistair,

I will write plainly.

I cannot fathom with what gall, what impudence you regard the situation in which you now find yourself…your kingdom. There is nothing to be said. And most certainly nothing to be done. What interest you had in the Lady Cousland's fortunes dissolved long ago, and I wish only the same could be said for the fortunes of her son.

-W.

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><p>This is just a short warm up I thought was both necessary and probable to the letter from Wynne, the other witness to the crime. I own nothing and make no money, etc. I was thinking of writing one more point of view, and perhaps a history book entry that would read like a codex. The four that reviewed, THANK YOU SO MUCH. It's lovely to get feedback, especially when it is positive, and you definitely motivated me to keep thinking this through. And as for writing about a point of view from Alistair, I feel like maybe that is some space I should leave grey, so that you guys could fill that in. I've tried to write this so that it can apply to everyone's story, as frustrating as it has been at times, and I feel like maybe my perception of him would unavoidably leak out. I'm still on the border however, so if you push, I will probably cave in. Thanks agains!<p> 


	3. From Wynne

Your Majesty The King,

I must beg forgiveness for my last letter, and have written hastily, in hopes this letter finds you not long after its predecessor. My sentiments therein were abhorrent, and I hope you will burn it before the day is out.

After much deliberation, I see now that it was not in anger at you, but in great sorrow, that I wrote such things. If you will have it still, I have resolved to present before you the whole of my dealings with the Lady Cousland, following your wedding to Queen Anora in Denerim. I will write plainly, but it is not without great pain, and I caution his majesty—it is not a pleasant tale.

I gather your Majesty has had correspondence with Teyrn Fergus Cousland, the late Lady Cousland's brother. I know not the contents of his discourse, so must beg pardon if what I relay is already known.

The Lady Cousland first contacted me approximately two weeks following the royal wedding. As you are no doubt aware, she departed Denerim the following day, and was, in my opinion, in no state for travel. I worried for her health, and so bade her write me immediately upon her return home. When I did not receive correspondence from her nor any Highever servant, I nearly resolved to write the Teyrn, myself, if her discourse delayed much longer. My relief was great, when, at last, she responded. Her letter was short, however, as she wrote only that she had, indeed, arrived in Highever without incident, and was settling in comfortably.

The easy and unaffected manner with which she wrote set me on edge. For the shortness of her letter, I felt her correspondence was full of unsaid sentiment. I was, therefore, hardly surprised when, less than twelve days later, I received another letter from Lady Cousland, begging I go to Highever at once. I have included her letters, for I have read them, and read them, so often I wish to never behold them again. My plans to travel to Amaranthine were immediately discarded, and I departed with hardly a moment's notice, fearing the worst.

When I did finally see her, two days later, she looked markedly improved from her rather sickly condition nearly four weeks prior, to my everlasting relief. The dark circles beneath her eyes had faded, though not entirely, and her smiles were, most of the time, genuine. She had put on some much needed weight, though her shoulder and hip bones still protruded, what looked, painfully so through her dresses. Without her armor, she looked slight. Our meeting was of mutual happiness, however, and she almost immediately ushered me up to her dressing room so we might speak in private.

Behind the security of closed doors, her demeanor quickly changed, however, as she intimated her suspicion that she was with child, despite your majesty having told her such was not possible. Allow me to say, I do not claim to know any details of your relationship with the Lady Cousland. I know only that your insistence a female Grey Warden could not conceive a child drove her to doubt not only her sanity, but His Majesty's integrity, as well. For several minutes, she frantically teetered between agitated concerns that perhaps her Calling had come early, that she had gone crazy, and that perhaps you had deliberately told her conception of a child was impossible, as a means of easily dismissing her. A simple magical examination common in the Circle of Magi proved her suspicions correct, however, and her reception of the confirmation was, in my opinion, far worse than her distress.

She was, for lack of a better word, disturbed. She sat quietly for several minutes, not moving, not seeing. She had gone white as snow. I could tell, there were tears to be shed, and she trembled almost imperceptibly as she checked them. She asked how long she had before others would notice, her tone level, and grave. I remember shrugging, trying to convey as delicately as possible that there was no way for me to know how far along her pregnancy was. I was hardly equipped to advise her, as I had never functioned as a midwife within the Circle, and told her so with the most motherly tone I could muster. I recommended she see a doctor, perhaps the doctor in service to the Teyrny, but she adamantly refused. Vehemently, would perhaps better capture the spirit.

We argued. Given the delicate nature of her position, _your_ position, she felt none but those absolutely necessary should learn of her condition. She pleaded with me, until desperate tears shone in her eyes. And despite my reservations, what could I have done but relent? I agreed to help her in any way I could.

When she embraced me, I confess, I thought I could hate you. She was so thin, so distressed. She clung to me, a buoy in the ocean, burying her face into my shoulder. I wanted so badly to say something, anything to make her feel better. And though I knew such things often happened between young lovers, I could say only that you were a fool, a coward, to refuse responsibility for you child. I could remind her of the warning I had imparted, not so long ago. To this, she ripped herself away from me as if she had been burned, her expression pained. She begged me never mention you again. Staring intently at the stone floor, determined, she insisted you were to be forgot, that it was all in the past. The conversation was abandoned, and we spoke not of you again for many weeks thereafter.

I departed soon after only to return briefly to the Circle of Magi. There was a colleague who functioned as often as was necessary as a midwife there with whom I wished to confer. I assured the Lady Cousland that I would keep her secret absolutely confidential, and made plans to return approximately one week later. I left her with strict orders to rest often, and eat well.

My journey back to Highever was delayed a few days, and I did not return for what became approximately two weeks, however. I was relieved to find her slightly more at peace with her situation. She intimated her plans, almost whimsically, to depart Highever Castle after the birth of the child and journey, perhaps, to the Free Marches, where neither of them would be known. I think she was warming to the idea of motherhood, something she had not had the possibility of considering before, and I was relieved to hear her considering a future with her child.

I remained at an inn half a morning's ride away, so as not to arouse suspicion from the servants, or the locals, for as long as possible, but returned often. The Teyrn remained ignorant to her situation, and I gather he was less delicate in discussing your majesty, or Lady Anora, than the Lady Cousland would have appreciated. I met him only briefly, despite my frequent visits to Highever Castle, and did not speak with him myself until such conversation was considered both pointless and undesired by both parties.

For the longest time, I believed I was Lady Cousland's only caller, until one day I came face to face with none other than Bann Teagan, of Rainesfere. I later learned that he and the Lady Cousland had been corresponding quite regularly by post, and that his visits to Highever Castle, as there had indeed been multiple, had not come entirely by surprise. Lady Cousland spoke of him fondly, and I immediately cautioned her against becoming too heavily involved, especially with nobility. She hastily asserted that their relationship extended no farther than cordial affection, but I suspect she, as well as I, knew better. Regardless of her feelings, it was quite clear that Bann Teagan was in some kind of danger of being in love, and would have likely made her an offer of marriage in the perceivable future. I encouraged her to keep a respectable distance, at least until the birth of her child, so as to avoid situations that would prove to be unpleasant to more than herself. Your majesty can imagine how she reacted, but I believe she saw the wisdom in my words, as harsh as they might have seemed. I never heard of him returning again, and assumed their acquaintance severed.

This is one of the many instances I look back on my direction, and wonder if I had not erred. I wonder if Bann Teagan could have loved her, bastard child and all. I wonder if they could have been happy together, as happy as two who have lived through what they had could. But I suppose, in the end, such thoughts are moot.

Approximately seven weeks after I first visited Lady Cousland, the form of her unborn child began to show, such that the ruffles in her dresses could no longer hide the obvious truth. She was still thinner than I would have liked, but she was, for all intents and purposes, healthy. I remember once, I called upon her, only to find her staring intently at her swollen stomach in the mirror, her hands cradling it delicately. I had approached quietly, and was able to observe her from the doorway, so engrossed was she. And though it surprised me then, as perhaps it will surprise you now, she looked hopeful, scared, and happy, as only a mother who loves her child can. I knew that look. And I truly believed then she really would pull through. She was alone, but she was strong. She should have pulled through.

Have you ever been to Highever Castle? It appeared quite plain to me on first visiting, but its Lady revealed to me the most splendid greenhouse. It was small, like most private gardens, but its lush greenery was mesmerizing, the air balmy, and fresh. She loved that greenhouse. She told me once that her father was a man of action, of the sword. But ever was his action tempered with compassion. She loved the plants her father had tended so diligently. She told me she found him there, in that greenhouse. She found the peace of mind his presence afforded her as a child. But she was a child no longer, and her father dead in the ground.

For such a beautiful haven, I knew when I found her in that greenhouse, among those plants, silent and somber, there could be no good news. Her stomach had grown larger, and she, thinner. I thought, perhaps, the lack of diversion was driving her to irritability, as she suffered terrible mood swings at times. This day too, such was my thinking. Sitting beside, her I waited, patiently. I knew, given time, she would tell me what was on her mind—what haunted her thoughts. But for many minutes she was silent. One hand cradled her stomach, the other, I realized, clutched very tightly an unopened letter, several sheets in length, it seemed. And suddenly I knew her trouble. There, over the page break, was the royal seal, emblazoned in black wax, stark against the beige of the parchment.

We sat together, silently, the air chilling me beneath my robes. She had scarcely moved for ten minutes, when she finally extended her arm across to me, her eyes averted. This came today, she said. She had sat there since the morning, when the courier had come, deliberating, doubting—hoping, I think. She had wanted desperately rip it open, to read its contents, but I know she feared, and distrusted her own heart. I too stared long at the letter, clearly laden with words—_your_ words. But ultimately, they were just words and nothing more, and after much deliberation, I stood, leaving the unopened sheets in my stead. I advised her to show no fear in the face of those words. Her life was her own, as was her child's, and you, now no more than a bystander, should have no influence or threat over either. And I left her there, in that beautiful greenhouse; to suffer as only a hero suffers. I never mentioned what I am assumed to be your correspondence to the Lady Cousland, and neither did she to me. But little did it matter, in the end. And all too soon, it had come.

Though it has been nearly a month already, I remember with painful acuity the frantic call of the servant late in the evening, begging I hasten to Highever Castle. I remember her piercing cries of pain as her body willed her unborn child into this world for nine long hours, with her as its only conduit. I remember how frightened I was at the blood, for there was so much blood, but how truly beautiful that single moment, that first breath of life, was. The first cry of your son rang out through the halls, and I felt tears of joy, of pride, well in my eyes. He was as beautiful as I remember my own son being, and once I had secured him in a blanket, I held him out for Her Ladyship to hold.

But her arms did not reach to meet mine. They did not reach for the life she had fought so hard to bring into this world. For in bringing his life, she had given her own. Forgive me, Alistair, but there is nothing more I can say. I simply…cannot. Where there should have been happiness, there was only grief, and the tears I might have shed in happiness, turned to tears of sorrow. I confess to being lost to my own grief for what must have been an entire half an hour. The boy cried, and cried, until his unanswered pleas for his mother mingled indistinguishably with mine—and what a cacophony we must have created.

But at length, when my tears ran dry, and the boy's cries diminished, I went to the Teyrn, still numb from shock, and bade him write you immediately. I imparted the instructions the late Lady Cousland had given me, some days before she went into labor, and then I departed with no intention of ever returning. I rode, and rode, my hands on the reigns still stained with her blood. I rode through those dark morning hours, until at last, I came upon the Circle tower. From there I am certain Your Majesty can imagine my course of action, which eventually led to my stay here, in the City of Amaranthine. You may rest assured, as no word of this state of affairs has passed my lips. Indeed, I had resolved to bury the matter, deep in my mind, to forget it had ever happened, until your letter arrived, this very morning.

She forgave you, you know. She forgave you everything. It took her some time, but I believe she understood that you did only what you thought was best, for your people, and for yourself. And I believe, in some way, she was proud of you for it. I only wish, for once, she could have done the human thing—the selfish thing.

Indeed, one month already, yet my days remain full of black headaches, and terrible bitterness. I am an old woman, and I have seen and lived through much. I thought with the resolution of Aneirin's disappearance, my hours of regret had finally come to a long awaited end. But it seems I have traded one regret for another. Could I have saved her? Was there more I could have done—said? It has never grieved me more to see the death of one so young, and I pray nightly that somehow, by some twisted will, this has all been a terrible nightmare. As I write to you now though, my quill grows heavy, and I feel only the acute loss of a dear friend.

In quiet moments, when the sun warms my old, tired bones, I imagine her here. I imagine her, not with a child, but just sitting, reading a book, braiding her hair—things I never saw her do. I imagine her sitting in that sun, in elegant robes of gold, smiling at something she sees out the window, watching intently—mirthful, and as beautiful as the Lady Andraste herself. I imagine her happy, and healthy, and without the burden I had ever known her to carry. I imagine her as the Teyrna she should have been. But those moments, so few, and so far between, come less often now than they did. I am an old woman, and my memory is not what it used to be. I swore to myself I would never forget her face—that at least one person in this world would remember her for the intensely beautiful being she was. But now, sooner than it should ever have come to pass, her expressions pass into shadows. I find I cannot remember how she looked sometimes, or the way her laughter, so freely given, rang out. The things that made her who she was are quickly disappearing, dissolving into that abyss we know only as memory, despite how I clutch at them ever tighter in my mind. It is like grasping at smoke.

But alas, before I am runaway with my reveries, there remains the matter of her child—_your_ child—the deepest bond, beyond love, beyond marriage, that two people can form. She, as well as I, knew that it would take only one letter regarding your son, and you would be there for her. But obstinate, wonderful woman—she chose to hide it from you, despite the whispers of Her Majesty's infertility. If she _had_ lived, I do not know if she would ever have told you. Perhaps years down the road, when the fires of bitterness and passion had burned out. Perhaps never. But she did not live, and I must now give you her instructions, as they were given to me, and as I delivered them to Teyrn Fergus Cousland. I did not heed her words with gravity then, but I must acknowledge her wishes.

I do not believe, with all honesty, she thought she would pass to the Maker's side in what was the perceivable future. I believe she thought she would live for many years to come. Yet ever cautious, she willed you, the father, to take custody of her child, in the event of her death. And I am so, so sorry it came to this. When I think of everything…more than anything, I feel such terrible sorrow for that beautiful child, who will grow up in a world that is truly less without her. Duncan. She had wanted to name him Duncan, in honor of the man who brought her to you. In honor of the man you had loved as a father.

I know now, Duncan will not grow to bear the name Cousland. That, perhaps, will die with the Teyrn. But even as a Theirin, at least he, if only him, deserves to know the truth—that his mother was a hero, and ultimately gave her life in the service and protection of your crown. That she was my friend, that once you had loved her, and that the entire kingdom will never know the enormity of the debt they owe her. For the sake of your Kingdom, of your Kingship, I know she can't be remembered the way she ought be. Her memory, like her, will pass into shadow, until even her descendents remember her not as their mother. That is the true death.

But she will live on, in her child, and in the roots of the Oak tree, planted by the Teyrn at the base of her unmarked grave. She will live on in you, and in me, and in every soul she touched with her own. She told me once, that she would find her way back into this life. And now, so will I. So must we all.

If it is no inconvenience, a letter from you would be most welcome, once everything has…settled down. There is so much to entertain here in Amaranthine, but I confess to missing your presence. I love you as if you were my son, Alistair, as I loved her. And maybe it was all just…timing. The passing of her family, the Blight, your wedding—maybe it was all just too much, even for a hero. It is easy to look back, to wonder 'what if'. I wonder 'what if' so often. However, I remind myself, as I remind you now—it does not do to dwell on the past. The good, of course, must always be remembered—shared. We must remember the bright light she was, among so much darkness. We must remember what she endured, what she sacrificed, to deliver us. And we must let go.

Ever Your Humble Servant, and Friend,

Wynne.

* * *

><p>Thank you for your patience, as I know this addition has been a long time coming. The good news is, I have written the bit I want to come next, as well as part of something I am still considering putting together following that. Please let me know what you think, both good and bad of course (but keep it constructive!). Also, given the HUGE lapse in time regarding the submission of these sections, I ask you please reread Wynne's first letter, then this addition, just as Alistair might have (if you haven't already!). I feel it would provide useful cohesiveness Thank you again!<p> 


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